


something that used to resemble a soul

by j_quadrifrons



Series: Stay Vicious [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Bondage, Dubious Consent, Gags, M/M, Monster!Jon, Monsters in love, Training, balance!Martin, i mean probably, it's dubcon but it's pretty fluffy for dubcon, post-Watcher's Crown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 11:56:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19463497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/j_quadrifrons/pseuds/j_quadrifrons
Summary: ["Don't worry," Martin said as he fastened the cuffs around Jon's wrists, twisting his arms behind his back. "I'm going to take care of you. Since you can't be trusted to take care of yourself."]





	something that used to resemble a soul

**Author's Note:**

> shoutout to the Do Not Archive discord crew, who took over my brain with this even though I have a hundred other things I ought to be writing instead of kinky dubcon monsters in love
> 
> (I wrote a little [prequel to this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20464754/chapters/48558161) in response to a tumblr prompt as well)

He probably would have considered this a failure, once. The ritual of the Watcher's Crown completed, the world monitored, observed, _Seen_ in a way no ordinary human could entirely comprehend -- or escape. Smirke had been right about one thing, though: it left the other Powers and their servants in the same position. Watched. Known. The days of subtle alliances and secret betrayals are over. The lesser entities continue their small torments and petty infighting, but the only true Power that exists is the Eye.

The Eye, and Martin Blackwood, balanced between three powers, held carefully apart in a web of his own making. He'd hoped that it would allow him to stay human, once; he can only be grateful now that he was wrong. No human could have walked the fine line he has mastered. No human could hold onto the position he has crafted for himself. Not of the Lonely, but singular and alone. Not of the Web, but controlling so many threads. Not of the Eye, but Head of the Magnus Institute, more powerful than ever in this remade world, and keeper of the Archivist.

No, he can't regret the loss of his humanity. This is too important. It's better for the world, probably, but Martin has never cared about the world as much as he's cared about Jon, and it's certainly better for Jon.

It turned out that the Watcher's Crown only required an Archivist for its early stages; after the fact, the Archivist became almost superfluous. Still dangerous, certainly, driven by a hunger for knowledge that threatened anyone touched by the Powers that he might stumble across, but the remaking of the world into the shape of Beholding granted him no new gifts. When Martin had first tracked him down in the aftermath, Jon had barely been human enough to hate himself for what he could not stop himself from doing. Jon's self-loathing has always cut Martin like a knife, but it has its uses. It was the thread he had used to draw Jon back to him, back to the Institute where he would be safe. It was what had brought him to his knees, that first time, without Martin even having to pull. No matter how much he'd struggled later, Martin would always remember that Jon had gone to his knees willingly that first time.

It's been a year since the Watcher's Crown, and although his life will never be normal again, Martin has settled into a comfortable routine. He walks the short distance from his Chelsea flat to the Institute, greets Rosie at the front desk. She still smiles at him the way she used to when he was just a researcher, and it fills his chest with an emotion he can't quite identify. Pity, maybe.

His first stop is the Archives where, despite the absence of the Archivist and the lack of any assistants, it's a simple matter to Know what statements will be most useful on any given day. It's remarkable how well the Archives manages itself. The Eye is happy to provide for its devoted servants, and if Martin doesn't quite qualify as one of those, well, he's close enough. Uninterrupted (he never seems to meet anyone in the hallways unless he particularly wants to), he makes his way up to his office, where Jon waits for him.

He looks so peaceful there, kneeling beside the heavy oak desk, hands bound behind his back, his shoulders relaxed and his head drooping forward. Silver-grey hair brushes against his jaw where the gag dimples the soft flesh of his cheek. He looks _right_ there, like it was where he was always meant to be. More importantly, if he's here he's _safe_. He can't throw himself into danger from here, can't seek knowledge with no regard for his own well-being. He's learning to take what he's given and for that to be enough.

"Good morning, Jon," Martin says, and he can't keep the tenderness out of his voice. Jon lifts his head slowly, though Martin knows his body is far too resilient now to grow stiff from such a simple position, and the look in his lovely brown eyes is unreadable. Martin shrugs out of his jacket, hangs it on elaborate coatrack behind the door. He hasn't bothered to get rid of most of Elias's furniture.

Jon's eyes follow him as he moves and it's enough to make Martin shiver. These days the feeling of being watched is so pervasive that one person's attention is scarcely noticeable, but the Archivist is something different. He savors the feeling as he chats amiably about the weather, the Institute staff, the meeting he has scheduled with the Fairchilds. Small tidbits, but information is information.

He pauses when he reaches Jon's side, brushes his fingers across Jon's shoulders affectionately. "It's good to see you," he says, as he does every morning. Martin sets an old file folder down on the chair, near Jon's shoulder. "And since you've been so well-behaved, I've brought you a statement." Jon's eyes go hungry and inhuman. He doesn't look away from the file as Martin unbuckles the gag. It comes away with a wet sound of saliva. Jon works his jaw, and Martin gives him a moment before asking lightly, "What do you say?"

Jon looks up at him from under dark lashes. It's clearly an effort to tear his eyes from the statement, but he does it, and Martin feels a swell of pride. "Thank you, Martin," he says. voice rough from disuse. "May I please have a statement?"

There's no compulsion in it. The first time Jon had tried to use the compulsion on him, Martin had sent him to the barren wasteland of Forsaken for twelve hours. The next time it was three days. He'd learned his lesson eventually.

"Very good," Martin says, and a shudder runs down Jon's spine. Martin flips open the file where it lays on the chair and steps back.

Jon tugs a little at the rope binding his arms and he looks up at Martin, but his gaze holds only a shadow of the reproach he would once have summoned. When he gets no response he shuffles forward on his knees, squares his shoulders, and begins to read.

Martin loves to listen to Jon read. The statements don't bother him like they used to -- particularly ones like this, an account of a woman being driven slowly mad by the feeling of tiny spider legs crawling through her hair -- and he can just relax and enjoy the sound of Jon's voice, twisted a little out of familiarity with the cadence of the woman's Newcastle accent, heavy with borrowed emotion. He has just enough of a connection to Beholding, too, to feel the rush of new information, the satisfaction of a statement being properly fed into the abyss of knowledge and fear. This is necessary for Jon, but it's a treat for him as well.

(Once, only a few months in, he had tried reading a statement himself. Jon had been feeling combative, and it had been weeks since Martin had felt like risking the compulsion. Two minutes into the statement, Jon had begun to tremble at his side. Two minutes more and he was shaking uncontrollably. Martin had given up reading then, sunk to the floor and wrapped his arms around Jon, holding him tightly and whispering promises and reassurances until the shaking had stopped. They didn't try that experiment again.)

When Jon finishes the statement he sits back on his heels and sighs in pleasure, tilting his head back to expose the vulnerable line of his throat. Martin can't resist; he runs a finger down the tendon and Jon only hums softly and leans into the touch. He's so pliant like this, sated and happy. Martin rests his hand at the base of Jon's throat, thumb pressing into the hollow of it, just a touch of pressure, and they both sit there in that moment silent and unmoving.

But there is still work to be done. Martin pulls away reluctantly; Jon makes a sound like a whine in the back of his throat at the loss of contact, but he shifts clear of the desk, looking up at Martin with hazy affection. Martin closes the file, drops it in a desk drawer, and settles in to the mundane daily work of managing a large and growing research institution.

His computer's still starting up when Jon leans in again, resting his head on Martin's thigh. He decides to allow it, letting his hand settle in Jon's hair, running the soft strands through his fingers as he logs in and pulls up the scheduling rota. It feels good, safe. Domestic, even. Martin thinks of the last man to sit in this chair, who hoped to rule the world after the Watcher's Crown, who dreamed of having this for himself. He doesn't need to belong fully to the Beholding to know that Elias is watching them from his prison cell, full of rage and impotent jealousy. Maybe one day, Martin thinks, he'll give Elias what he wants, let him out of prison and back into the Institute at last. And then he'd give Elias to Jon, let him pull the last of two hundred years of secrets out of the Watcher at last. Martin is pretty sure that by now, even if so much Knowing gave Jon the power to overcome his bonds and escape, he wouldn't even try.

**Author's Note:**

> please also take a look at [saj's art](https://an-old-telephone.tumblr.com/post/186051314399/sajwho-art-jon-getting-more-inhuman-acting-on) which they posted when I was halfway through writing this, we share a braincell apparently and that braincell is "Martin needs to put Jon in chains"
> 
> Please come yell about TMA with me, I have too many feelings  
> [@j_quadrifrons](https://twitter.com/j_quadrifrons), [backofthebookshelf](https://backofthebookshelf.tumblr.com)


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